Wrecked Angles
by happycabbage75
Summary: Sam and Dean, a jail, the police, ghosts... Some days it just doesn't pay to show up to work.
1. Chapter 1

**Wrecked Angles**

Summary: Sam and Dean, a jail, the police, ghosts… Some days it just doesn't pay to show up to work.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Duh.

_All right, all right… I admit I cheated on the shape theme with the title… I just couldn't come up with anything for rectangles! And since last night's episode had enough angst to last us all an entire _season_, this story is going to be a short bit of fluff. Just a little adventure for the boys._

Chapter One

* * *

"This was a bad idea."

Sam looked at his brother, now locked behind the prison bars, and he had to agree. "They won't budge?"

"Actually, I thought being trapped was a great new look for spring," Dean said, banging against the door again in frustration.

After several more tries, until Sam could clearly see that it was hurting his shoulder, Dean finally stopped and the abandoned jail fell silent around them. It was a claustrophobic silence and Sam fought the urge to bang on the door himself. Every instinct was telling him they needed to leave, fast.

"What does it want?" Dean asked, angrily kicking the door. "What good is it going to do to lock me up in here?"

"I don't know," Sam said, trying to keep his tone calm and soothing. Dean just didn't do well without room to run. Sam watched as he began circling inside the small cell that had been stripped years ago. "Maybe the guard can help. He should have been here half an hour ago. I don't know what the hold up is."

"The _hold up_ is that I'm locked in a freaking cell," Dean said through clenched teeth.

"How's your head?"

Dean stopped pacing and raised a hand to his head where a small trickle of blood still fell from near his hairline. "It's fine," he said gruffly. When they'd walked into this block of cells, Dean had been in the lead. The ghost or whatever it was had literally pulled him into the cell and slammed the door shut.

"Ok, I'm gonna go look around," Sam told him. "You… just hold tight. I'll be back."

"No way," Dean said, already shaking his head. "All we need is for you to be locked in one of these too."

"Dean, somebody has to go find the guard," Sam said reasonably.

"Somebody," Dean furiously rattled the barred door again, "needs to get me outta here. _Now_. You are _not_ wandering around here alone."

Sam turned his back to Dean, searching uselessly for anything that might help. It was a small block of cells and doors led away on both ends of the corridor. The building was still eerily silent and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

They were there because a former guard had called asking them to look into his son's death at the defunct facility. The knowledge that the man had died locked in a cell was not currently filling Sam with joy. The guard's son had called his father, completely frantic, saying he was at the jail and then the phone had gone dead. The poor guy had raced there to find his son on the floor of a cell, seemingly unharmed except for being stone dead.

The cell had been closed, the guard had told them, but when he tugged on it, the door had opened easily. Apparently, when the jail had been closed, all of the locks had been removed to prevent just such a thing from happening, fear of lawsuits, etc. That hadn't helped the man's son though. He was still dead. It didn't help Dean either. He was locked up as well as any prisoner.

"_Crap_."

Sam spun around to see Dean turning in a circle inside the cell, looking spooked.

"What?" Sam said nervously, walking back up to the bars.

"There's something in here with me," Dean whispered, half to himself. He raised his sawed-off shotgun and backed up into the corner closest to Sam where the bars met the wall so he'd have the best vantage without the chance of accidentally shooting Sam.

"You see something?"

"Not exactly."

"Meaning?" Sam pressed.

"Meaning I felt something. Like something brushed past me," Dean said, "and… heard something."

"I didn't hear anything," Sam frowned.

Dean shrugged his shoulders, loosening them. "Well, then don't I just feel special. That school counselor always said I'd go psychotic in my 20s. I was starting to worry I wouldn't make it."

"Dean…"

"Hey, a guy's got to have goals. She told me to make them reasonable and obtainable."

Sam couldn't see Dean's face, but he could hear the tense amusement in his voice. Dean and a wide array of guidance counselors had spent his entire school career in a state of barely undeclared war. Only Dean's innate charm and the very occasional, and Sam suspected purposely timed, flashes of honesty he was prone to had kept him from serious trouble. Sam lived for those moments and he had no doubt the counselors had been just as intrigued by the mess that was his brother. It was either that or Dean had threatened them with bodily harm if they didn't leave him alone. Dean was prone to that too.

"What did you hear?" Sam asked.

"It told me to stay put," Dean answered. "Not like I have a choice."

Dean suddenly flinched and threw himself away from the bars and backed into one of the far corners, wide-eyed and breathing hard.

"You wanna tell me what's going on?" Sam demanded tersely. He wasn't seeing anything at all and Dean was acting like there was something all around him.

"Different voice," Dean said, still breathing like he'd been running. "That one definitely told me I was a dead man."

"It said what?" Sam's voice rose, his own heart now pounding in his chest.

"All right," Dean announced as if he'd come to a decision. "Now you can go find something to get me out of this cell."

"I thought you didn't want me going anywhere alone."

"I don't. But I don't wanna die in here either." Dean suddenly looked past Sam. "You smell that?"

"Dean, what is going _on_?" Sam was getting more and more frustrated. "Since when are you Mr. In-touch-with-all-your-ghost-senses?"

"You don't smell smoke?" Dean asked, ignoring him.

Sam immediately stopped moving, paying closer attention to his surroundings. They'd looked into the history of the jail. There were no reports of a fire. They certainly would have noticed the old _died in a prison fire_ routine. No self-respecting ghost could resist that. But the facility had simply been closed when a newer, larger one had been built.

"Ok, yeah. I smell smoke," Sam said.

Dean yelped involuntarily, and Sam immediately echoed him as he felt something brush past him in the direction of the door leading out of the cell block. "I think it or they or… whatever… it's gone," Dean said warily.

"I felt it go past me on the way out," Sam confirmed. He reached out toward the barred door, but Dean was already in motion. He gave the door a vicious kick and it popped open with a loud clang. Sam barely had time to move out of the way before Dean came barreling out of the cell. He grabbed Sam's arm as he passed and began pulling him back toward the front of the building.

"Sam, haul it a little faster," Dean urged.

Sam swung his flashlight ahead of them and immediately saw why Dean was in such a hurry. He hadn't realized it, but there was a definite haze in the air. Of necessity, the place had only certain places one could exit. Going through the cell blocks, they had worked their way to one side of the building. Now they were going to have to work their way back to the front and hope they weren't blocked.

The smoke became thicker and thicker as they approached the front. Sam kept Dean in sight trusting his brother's nearly infallible sense of direction to get them out. Hacking and coughing, they finally came through the doors leading into the jail's front receiving area. The wide room was engulfed in flame or at least everything that wasn't made out of concrete. The old desks and built in furniture were wooden and the ceiling tiles were clearly flammable, raining fiery debris down on them as they hurried through.

Sam nearly ran into Dean when his brother came to a sudden halt. Dean dropped to his knees and Sam was startled to realize there was a man sprawled face down on the lobby floor. He hurried to the man's other side and together they hastily patted out several smoldering patches on his clothing.

"Feet," Dean ordered on a cough while he grabbed the man's shoulders. He was heavier than he looked, but between them they managed to lift the dead weight. Dean led the way, walking backwards and they again hurried, as best they could, to escape the scorching rain.

Sam anxiously watched the ceiling, expecting the whole thing to fall at any moment, but to his relief, they broke out into the fresh air only seconds later, coughing their way out and running directly into a line of firefighters.

"You boys all right?" one of them asked as the others continued to move past, already running hoses toward the burning building. "Ambulance is over there," the fireman pointed instead of waiting for an answer. He then quickly moved between them to help carry the heavy man.

"Heads up, Andy!" the fireman yelled and Sam saw the medics pull a gurney out of the back of the ambulance and then hurry toward them. The uniformed workers waited for them to set their burden on the gurney and then both men did a visible double take.

"Doug?" one of the men said loudly. "Doug, can you hear me?"

Sam and Dean shared a quick look. Doug was the name of the former guard who'd called them. Apparently they weren't going to get any information out of him tonight.

As the medics started working, Sam and Dean melted into the noise and bustle of the emergency workers, especially avoiding the policemen blocking the traffic. They quickly stumbled into the car, grateful it wasn't being hemmed in by fire engines and, mindful of the police presence, sedately drove away.

Sam shook his head. "Either these ghosts have learned to set fires…"

"Or someone doesn't want us poking our noses where they don't belong," Dean finished for him, staring angrily out the windshield. "_Great_. Just _great_."

* * *

_A teaser to get started… More tomorrow…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Wrecked Angles**

Summary: A jail, ghosts, the police, impending disaster…

_Alllrighty… Pardon the delay. Now that the site is willing to cooperate, on we go!_

Chapter Two

* * *

"Doug?"

Sam and Dean walked into the hospital room to find the 60ish looking man they had rescued the night before sitting up in bed. A pleasantly plump gray-haired woman sat in a chair beside him, holding his hand.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked.

"I'll be all right," the man replied tiredly. "Just took a knock to the head. You… You're the men I called?"

They nodded. "Sam." Dean pointed. "I'm Dean."

"You pulled me out of the fire, didn't you?" The man coughed and the woman beside him hurriedly reached for a glass of water. "The firemen told me two young men carried me out, but then disappeared."

"We found you having some quality time with the lobby floor," Dean offered. "You want to tell us what happened?"

"Ruth," the man said, "could you give us a minute, honey?"

The woman nodded. She stood and had almost walked past them when she stopped. "I'm grateful… for my husband. Both of you." Her face was stricken, lined by time and grief, and Dean was reminded that the couple had lost their son only days before.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Mrs. Avery," Dean said quietly. He knew the look she wore. It was the same look he'd seen for days, weeks even, every time he'd glanced in the mirror after their dad had died. They ran into it often enough in their line of work. But after their dad… it had felt different, seeing that look. The woman seemed broken.

"Thank you," she answered woodenly. She looked up and Dean didn't want to know what she saw in his face, because her expression suddenly softened and she brushed a tear away. "Thank you," she said again. "He… he was a good boy."

Dean nodded. He knew there really wasn't anything else to say. There never was.

Sam cleared his throat and Dean saw that he was watching him, his eyes silently asking if he were all right. Dean immediately straightened his shoulders and rubbed a hand over his chin. He really should shave one of these days, he thought absently.

Dean waited for Ruth to leave before turning back to the man on the bed, his no-nonsense expression firmly in place again. "So what's going on, Doug?"

The man sat up very slowly and slid his legs over the side of the bed so he could face them. "I have no idea." He shook his head back and forth, clearly frustrated. "Yesterday, I went to the jail to meet you. I had no sooner walked into the lobby than someone clobbered me over the head. The next thing I know, I wake up here and my wife is crying."

"What about your son?" Dean asked more carefully. "You didn't tell us much on the phone. Do you know why he might have been there?"

"My son…" The former guard's voice broke and he cleared his throat. "You know he… was a policeman. He must have seen something odd and was checking the building."

"But you said he was panicked when he called you," Sam hinted. "If he was on duty why wouldn't he radio for help?"

"Once again, I just don't know," Doug sighed. "I told the boys stories when they were little. Ghost stories really. About the jail. That might be why he called me."

Dean doubted that. When real disaster struck, especially something that couldn't be explained rationally, people had a tendency to regress and yell for mommy. Or in this case he'd called Daddy. "Anything ever happen at the jail that you know about?" Dean asked. "Anyone ever get badly hurt or… killed even?"

Doug put a hand to his head like it was hurting. "Years ago… but since then… It's all just ghost stories," he said, as if he didn't really believe that was true. "I don't really know anything for certain."

"Somebody does," Dean said, pointing to Doug's head.

"I suppose so," the man said.

"Who knows you called us?" Sam asked. "That should narrow who might have wanted you out of commission."

Doug actually snorted. "Haven't spent much time around cops have you?"

"More than we'd like," Dean replied dryly. He'd tried to talk Sam out of taking the job altogether. Sure, these people needed help, but the Winchesters and law enforcement were known to have problems getting along from time to time.

"Policemen gossip more than old women," Doug said. "Half the time they are running around from disaster to disaster, but the rest of the time, they talk." He smiled tolerantly. "Their job is to be in other people's business, knowing who knows who and who knows what. Everyone's fair game. All I had to do was tell one person and in 24 hours every single cop in town, every jail officer, dispatcher, everybody at the courthouse…" He shook his head. "Ten bucks says even the metermaids know. Something this crazy… it's too good a bit of gossip not to pass on. After Nick… I'm sure they think I've lost it, calling in the ghostbusters."

All three men looked up and turned at the sound of movement behind them. Four policemen walked into the small hospital room, all unsmiling, their watchful eyes glued to them. Two were in city blue, one was in Sheriff's Department brown and the fourth was wearing a State Police uniform.

Dean immediately felt his hackles rise. It was a small room and they were most definitely cornered. Almost before he realized what he was doing, his hand began to edge toward the gun resting against the small of his back beneath his jacket. Sam must have guessed that would be his reaction and as inconspicuously as possible set his own hand over the gun, simultaneously blocking Dean from drawing and silently willing him not to do anything rash.

Dean glanced at Sam to say he understood and Sam let his hand drop back. Dean's eyes traveled from officer to officer as each side sized up the other. Finally he grinned. If he couldn't shoot his way out, then the only weapon he had left was his mouth. "Either I'm having an acid flashback or we just walked into a Police Academy movie. Which one of you is Hightower?"

None of the officers smiled. The deputy cleared his throat and looked past them to the man still sitting on the bed. "You didn't tell us they were funny."

"I'd have told you myself if you'd asked," Dean offered. When cornered, talk. It was his standard response. It gave him time to think of something else while he put his mouth on automatic.

"You two have ID?" the trooper asked and the other three officers simply stood and waited.

"None of that," Doug said and in an instant the four men stood down, obeying him as if it were automatic.

Dean knew there was only one thing in the world that followed orders like that. A son. Brothers. The four men had to be brothers and the jail officer had to be their father.

"Be polite," the man ordered. "I told you, boys, you didn't need to talk to them. I will take care of it."

The officer uniformed in brown stepped closer to his father. "Dad, we came here to see if you were all right. You should have called. We had to find out what happened from the night shift when we came in," the man chided. He appeared to be the youngest of the group.

Now that Dean really looked at them, the four men were very similar. Beyond the standard cop haircut and the uniforms, they all had the same short, stocky build, the same oval faces, the same dark hair. Dean tried not to smile as it occurred to him that they looked like a bunch of surly, armed hobbits.

"Sam, Dean," the older man said, "These are my boys. Adam works for the county, Tim is a state trooper, Josh and Ben work for the city." None of the men offered a handshake or even a nod.

"Dad, Tabitha is out in the waiting room with Mom. She was here alone all night," one of the two city officers said, his tone far more accusatory than his brother's had been. "She shouldn't have had to do that."

The older man rubbed a hand over his face tiredly. "You're right, boys. Your mom and I, neither of us is thinking too clearly."

The same son sighed and sat down on the bed beside his father, the picture of what he would look like himself in 30 years. "Sorry," he offered more gently. "It just… surprised us… After Nick…"

"I know, son. I know," Doug smiled sadly. "Not what we needed right now, was it?"

As Doug unashamedly put an arm around his son's shoulders and gave him a quick squeeze, Dean couldn't help feeling a sudden pang of loss. Their dad had never been given to outward shows of emotion, but he'd been there for his sons… in his own way. Dean dared a look at Sam and saw he was wearing an almost wistful expression. Typical, Dean thought. He wanted what he'd lost and Sam was wishing for what he'd never had.

The state trooper cleared his throat drawing everyone's attention. "Have you told them?"

"They just got here," his father answered defensively.

"You know what I mean, sir," the trooper eyed him, giving him no quarter. Two of the other brothers nodded along with him.

"Your father doesn't know much," Dean said, and ordered himself not to flinch as four sets of cop eyes swung in his direction. He knew there was more to it than Daddy was saying. The brothers didn't seem pleased and Doug had at least known enough to call them in the first place.

"Dad, you know there's more to it than just ghost stories," the son sitting on the bed said. "You've always known."

The one officer who had remained silent until that time made an impatient huffing sound. "Dad," he said, and his voice was lower than expected, intense. "You told us yourself, these guys were coming here to help us. We have no idea how to deal with this and they do. Don't tie their hands by not giving them the proper information, no matter how embarrassing it is to admit. Nobody will say it, but we all know something is wrong at the old jail. And whatever is in those cells, it _killed_ Nick."

"Ben…" his father said, almost plaintively.

"So why don't you tell us," Sam said, making eye contact with the officer.

"It's an open secret around here," Ben said. "We made up a whole lot of reasons that we needed a new jail and they all sounded nice and rational. But every officer in this area knows that we moved because that place was a death trap."

"How so?" Dean asked.

Adam, the county officer, cleared his throat. "The group of cells where Nick died… They were left empty unless we had no other choice. And even then, we would handcuff guys to the benches in the lobby before we'd put them in there."

"Why?"

"They'd go freaking nuts," the trooper answered. "Most of the time, they'd start fighting each other, but if one of the jail officers got anywhere near them, they'd attack them and try to rip their head off."

"The rest of the time, we just stayed away," the blue-uniformed officer still sitting beside his father said. Had to be Josh if the one who had returned to being stern and silent was Ben.

"I got locked in one of the cells," Dean offered. "Pulled me right in." The men all looked up at that, like he'd said something interesting. "What?"

"It never did that to police officers or prisoners. Only jail officers," Doug answered.

Dean only shrugged. "But you said your son was a cop."

"Nick worked in the jail as a guard when he was younger. All my kids did," the man explained. "Which means he should have known not to go anywhere near those cells. Especially not at night."

"Any idea what happened to turn that corner into spook central?" Dean asked, watching closely for any sort of reaction. There had to be something. Their dad had nearly been killed just for asking someone to look into a _ghost_ story.

"That's a bit of a problem," the deputy answered. "There was a riot at the jail years and years ago. Two inmates died, but we don't know how. The place would have been a zoo and anything could have happened." He swallowed nervously. "But sometimes… sometimes I swear you could hear voices."

"What did the voices say to you?" Dean asked him and saw the deputy pale visibly.

"Said I was a dead man," Adam replied. "And at the time, I really thought I was."

Dean looked at the others. "How about the rest of you?" They did not respond and he felt a grin spreading across his face. "What? Bunch of tough guys don't want to admit to hearing voices?"

"And you do?" Ben growled.

Dean snorted. "Dude, I hear voices for a living."

"Don't call me dude."

"No problem," Dean continued to smile. He could practically feel Sam at his elbow begging him to be polite. "My brother and I have work to do. I won't call you dude and you don't get in our way."

Ben cocked his head to one side, studying them. "Within reason," was all he responded.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Just make sure we get a clear path. That's all we need from you. We can't take care of this if one of your buddies arrests us for trespassing."

"Dad?"

The entire group turned toward the door hearing a female voice.

"Come in, Tabitha," Doug said.

"Let me guess," Dean stage-whispered. "FBI? CIA? Navy SEAL?"

The woman bore a marked resemblance to her hobbit-like brothers though nature had been far kinder to her in its arrangement of her dark hair and features. Instead of a uniform, she was wearing business attire, a skirt and blouse. She was pushing a wheelchair in front of her, but came to a halt hearing Dean's question. She looked past them to her father. "You didn't tell us they were funny."

"What were you expecting?" Dean couldn't help asking.

She looked him up and down, and it wasn't flattering. "Something a little less Road Warrior."

"Is this because I didn't shave this morning?" Dean rubbed a hand over his jaw as he'd done earlier.

"Our father told us you were… professionals," she said ruefully.

"I don't think she believes we're pros, Sammy." He glanced over at his brother and they shared a look of commiseration. "We hunt vampires and demons. Rough and tumble is kind of necessary, wouldn't you say?"

"I hate to tell you this, but they don't think you're funny either," Sam smiled innocently.

Dean snorted and they both turned back to the room to find every single person staring at them.

"Sam?" Dean asked out of the side of his mouth.

"Yeah?"

"Why are they looking at us like we just mentioned Uncle Morty's second wife in Utah?" His eyes moved from sibling to sibling.

"Vampires?" the trooper asked.

"Demons?" the deputy said, turning almost green.

Ben was once again giving them an assessing look, though he too appeared startled.

Sam and Dean shared another glance, half-amused, half-exasperated. These people believed in ghosts. They'd spent their entire working lives avoiding a cell block that tried to kill them if they got too close.

Dean scratched at the back of his head. He could feel the thin line of an old scar beneath his fingers, running just under his hair. Ghosts and demons everywhere to haunt him. "You should take your father home. We need anything, we'll call."

The thought seemed to galvanize them all into motion. Doug was quickly assisted into the wheelchair and whisked out the door, followed by three of his sons.

Tabitha stopped very briefly. "I work for the mayor. Don't do anything stupid that will make the papers. Got it?"

"Will do," Dean nodded. A pretty lady, other than the rampant disdain marring her features. She was watching him like he was a wild animal that might go berserk at any moment. It kinda hurt a guy's feelings, even if it was a semi-valid assessment.

"Dean," Sam whispered, as she walked out the door. "You can stop glaring now. I think she got the point."

"It's not like we're rabid," Dean frowned.

The only person left was Ben. He walked a few steps closer to them and stopped. He was still watching them coldly, calculatingly.

"Just spit it out," Dean suggested. Something told him Ben was the oldest of the children. There was something in his demeanor that told Dean that this was the protector, the guardian.

"I don't need to see your ID," he said pointedly. "I already looked you two up."

Sam shifted nervously beside him, but Dean didn't break eye contact with Ben. It was a staring contest and he couldn't afford to flinch. "See any good pictures?"

"I saw plenty."

"This is the part where you threaten us," Dean offered. "It's ok. I don't mind as long as you let us do our job."

"My father says you can be trusted," Ben said, as if he hadn't heard. "His friend vouched for you, said your records aren't what they seem and told him enough for Dad to believe you could help us."

"We can," Sam said and Ben nodded. Sam's forthright tone always worked better with the law enforcement types. Having a brother who was so decent and wholesome had its uses.

"My family has been through a tragedy," Ben stated. "I won't allow them to be hurt any more. Is that understood?"

Sam and Dean both nodded. On that much they could easily agree.

"You get rid of whatever it is that killed Nick and I'll let you two walk away. No questions asked."

"But?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

"But if you cross us, you won't have to worry about seeing the inside of a courtroom." Ben's gaze briefly traveled to Sam, then moved back to Dean and stopped there. "I'll gut you myself and leave you in the woods."

"Good to know," Sam said.

He put a hand on Dean's shoulder to ask him not to do or say anything foolish, but he needn't have worried. Ben had lost his brother and he was close to the breaking point. Dean knew some of what that felt like. "Just give us a few days. We'll let you know what happens," he said solemnly.

"You do that," the man replied, then strode from the room and left them alone.

Both brothers let out a breath. "Small town hospitality at its finest," Dean observed.

"I'd feel better about making promises if I had a clue what was going on," Sam said.

Dean huffed. "Why break with tradition now? We fumble around, nearly get killed and then figure it out," he shrugged. "It's what we do."

Sam rolled his eyes and pushed Dean toward the door. "Just stop goading the police, Dean. I'll worry about how well you stick to tradition later."

* * *

_Lots of talking… sheesh. I promise to hit something tomorrow. Honest…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Wrecked Angles**

Summary: Way too many civil servants, an old jail, ghosts… and a couple of clueless ghost hunters.

_Thanks for the lovely reviews… A new chapter as promised._

Chapter Three

* * *

Sam eyed the clerk. "What do you mean we can't see the files? It's public record."

He and Dean had spent several hours in the library, finding only a few articles mentioning an incident at the jail in the early 70's. As the Averys had told them, two inmates died in the riot, but the details weren't known. The cause of death hadn't even been released to the papers.

Two dead prisoners. Two ghosts. One was pulling guards into the cell and trying to protect them. The other was trying to kill them.

According to the articles, one of the men who'd died had been a long time criminal with years' worth of arrests. Booze, drugs, theft, resisting, fleeing, multiple arrests for battery… Jackson 'Bud' Riley had been a real peach. He'd probably jumped at the chance to beat the crap out of a guard, especially if he'd had a beef with the guy.

The second inmate who'd died was a Peter Daugherty. He was a young guy who'd been charged with public intoxication. He'd apparently been caught downtown falling down drunk and had been locked up to sleep it off when the fight broke out. No priors. Probably a decent kid and probably the one who'd tried to protect the guard.

That just left the guard for them to find; someone who'd lived but hadn't told anyone what had happened in that cell.

The newspaper briefly mentioned that several guards and an officer had received minor injuries and that the inmates' deaths were still under investigation. As far as Sam could tell the incident had never been mentioned again, at least not publicly. Apparently, a dead sociopath and a dead drunk hadn't really been a great tragedy to the community.

One thing they did know and that was that neither of the bodies had been claimed. They had been buried at the county's expense in the lot near the jail used for pauper's burials.

None of which explained why someone had seen fit to bash Doug Avery over the head and attempt to burn down the jail. That left them with no other choice than to try and track down the original police reports. At least they might be able to figure out which guard it was in that cell and go talk to them. A quick call to Doug had informed them that records that old were kept in the courthouse basement. One of the clerks would have to dig them out.

"How can we not see the files?" Sam asked in irritation.

"I'm sorry, sir," the clerk said in an infuriatingly calm bureaucratic voice. "Those records have been sealed by order of Mayor Evans."

"How can he do that?" Sam demanded. "Ma'am, those records are public and over 30 years old now. Why would they be sealed?"

"Look," the tired, middle-aged woman said, dropping her semi-polite façade, "the mayor called down here and told me not to let anyone see them. After the policeman got killed at the old jail, he figured some nosy reporter type would come in here trying to make something of all the rumors."

"We're not reporters," Dean said smoothly. "We just…"

"Save it, sugar," the woman swiftly cut him off. "I don't care if you two are Santa's elves. The mayor is the guy who'll fire me if I let you see them."

"Ma'am, I haven't made Santa's Nice List since I was six," Dean grinned wickedly.

The woman looked at him in surprise and then had to grin in answer, a faint blush creeping up her neck. "I just bet."

Sam rolled his eyes, then coughed politely to draw her attention back. "The mayor only called you about the records after Nick died?"

"Last week," she affirmed.

"Interesting, don't you think?" Sam asked, looking at Dean.

"Is there a way we could ummm… liberate those records?" Dean asked the clerk, using his 'You know you want to help me' smile.

The woman laughed, clearly amused. "Sure. Go talk to Bob."

"Bob?"

"The mayor."

Sam and Dean shared a disbelieving glance. "The mayor's name is Bob Evans?" Sam pursed his lips in an effort not to smile.

She glanced at them and raised an eyebrow. "I'd suggest you not mention that when you talk to him or you'll never get to see those files."

"And where would we find Bob?" Dean asked.

"Down the hall to the left," she pointed. "If he's out then Tabitha will help you."

Sam nearly ran into Dean who stopped half-way out the door and turned back. "Tabitha Avery?"

The clerk nodded. "She's the deputy mayor."

Dean gave a short grunt of disgust and Sam had to laugh. "Thank you," he said to the clerk and pushed his now reluctant brother out the door.

"Maybe I should go wait in the car," Dean suggested once they were in the corridor.

"Man, I'm seriously starting to worry," Sam frowned. "I've never known you to avoid a pretty woman. You feeling ok?"

Dean scowled. "She _would_ be pretty if she didn't look at us like we're only two steps above pond scum."

"She wasn't _that_ bad." Sam grinned. "Besides, you shaved this morning. I'm sure she'll be impressed."

Dean just shook his head. "Dude, you can read women about as well as a eunuch. Trust me. Her mouth said 'behave yourselves.' The rest of her said 'drop dead'."

"She's lost her brother," Sam said reasonably, raising his hand to knock on the open door that read _Mayor's Office_. "She'll help."

Tabitha looked up as they walked in and she was already frowning. "I can't help you."

"Nice to see you, too, Tab," Dean muttered.

"Kate just called down here," she continued to frown. "She told you Bob doesn't want anyone seeing those files. There's nothing I can do about it."

"Sure you can," Dean observed. "You can call Kate and tell her the Mayor's Office will let us see them."

Tabitha was already shaking her head before Dean was even finished. "He won't allow it. I was given specific orders."

"We're trying to find out what happened to your brother," Sam pleaded. "It might give us the information we need."

"You think I haven't tried?" the woman snapped. "Bob won't let anyone look at the files."

"Why is he hiding them?" Dean asked.

"Bob worked at the jail during the riot," she replied crisply.

"Ya don't say." He took a step toward her, annoyed. "And you didn't think this was something we might need to know earlier?"

"Listen, you little degenerate." Tabitha stood up from behind her desk, glaring at him. "My father may think we should trust you to take care of this, but as far as I'm concerned you're trying to make a quick buck from my family's loss."

"Lady," Dean grit his teeth, "we're staying at the local roach motel and living off the dollar menu. You wanna see our bank balance? All we're getting from this job is grief."

"Dean," Sam said in warning. They needed this woman's help after all and Dean was glaring at her again. For a scam artist, his brother really didn't take it very well when someone accused him of dishonesty.

"You're telling me my father isn't paying you?" she said incredulously.

"Not a cent," Sam assured her and she looked genuinely taken aback. "Feel free to ask him yourself. That's not how this works."

"Yeah," Dean frowned, "your gratitude is thanks enough." For just a second Sam could have sworn that he looked hurt, but the tiny flash of emotion was gone as soon as it appeared.

Sam let out a breath slowly. "All right. Thank you for your help. Come on, Dean." He grabbed his brother's arm and began to pull him toward the door.

"What will you do now?" Tabitha asked, as if in spite of herself.

Dean pulled away from Sam and simply looked at her. Suddenly a full Cheshire Cat grin spread across his face. "You sure you want to know?" he asked. "I'd hate for you to get the wrong idea about us."

"Why?" she narrowed her eyes. "What are you going to do?"

Dean began to turn back toward Sam, but stopped still half-looking at her over his shoulder. "We're going to go dig up a body." Dean winked at her. "Trust me. It's more fun than looking at paperwork any day."

* * *

Sam wiped the sweat out of his eyes and threw the shovel up onto the ground. Jackson 'Bud' Riley's grave had been easy enough to find sitting amidst a neatly arranged field of graves. There were no fancy stones in this cemetery, only small plaques, the next body to go unclaimed buried beside the last. Just a name and bare dates, sometimes only a date of death if no one had been able to find a name or birth date.

The small field spread out behind the old jail, just another bit of land owned by the county. A sad, lonely ending to any life. Sam could only pray that a field like this wasn't where he would end up. With lives like theirs it was all too possible. A hunt gone wrong, two dead men with all kinds of fake ID but no real contacts, no money, no one to inform that they were dead and he and Dean would wind up buried side by side in the county plot with no one ever the wiser.

They had decided to take care of the friendly neighborhood sociopath first, since he seemed to be the one causing the most grief. The other ghost seemed to be pulling guards into the cell and trying to protect them from Jackson.

Dean pulled himself up out of the grave and reached a hand back to help Sam out. A bit of salt, a bit of lighter fluid and the bones were aglow. Sam quietly watched them burn, thinking as he always did now of another body burning. A body that meant far more to him. But the thought was gone again in an instant and he turned away and bent down to retrieve his shovel. His hands were already rough and blistered. Digging graves really was one of his least favorite jobs and they had one more to go.

"You two just can't take a hint can you?"

Sam looked up just in time to see a shovel swinging down straight for his head. If it didn't kill him, this was definitely going to hurt.

* * *

_More tomorrow…_


	4. Chapter 4

**Wrecked Angles**

Summary: A jail, civil servants, ghosts…

_Where were we… oh yes… Sam had a date with a shovel…_

Chapter Four

* * *

"You two just can't take a hint, can you?"

Dean heard Sam's shout and turned just in time to see his brother drop like a rock. Their attacker brought the shovel back and swung at Dean, but he was on the other side of Sam's prone form, and the man couldn't reach far enough. Dean lunged toward the duffel bag sitting a few feet away, dropping and rolling, coming up with Marigold already in hand and pointed in the right direction.

An unconscious Sam still on the ground between them, the shovel-wielding lunatic immediately stilled at the sight of the sawed-off shotgun. Marigold was only loaded with rock salt, but Dean wasn't about to share that information. Besides, Marigold was his best girl and whether loaded with lead, iron or rock salt she would knock the bastard down just the same.

"I take hints just fine," Dean growled. "I just don't like them when it means ignoring a murder." He spared a quick look at Sam. Dean couldn't see any blood and assumed he'd been struck with the flat of the shovel.

The man looked to be about the same age as Doug Avery, perhaps a little older. Unlike Doug, though, this was not a blue collar kind of guy. He was wearing slacks, a dress shirt and tie. He'd probably had a suit coat, but discarded it somewhere along the way. His gray hair also had that wouldn't-move-in-a-tornado, politician look. Had to be the mayor and he didn't appear to be in the mood to shake hands or kiss babies tonight.

"You're the one who hit Doug," Dean stated the obvious, "and set the jail on fire." He needed information. It was the only reason the guy was still standing. "Didn't work so well, did it?"

"Jail is mostly concrete," the mayor answered irritably. "Wouldn't burn."

"You tried to burn it down because..."

"I was trying to solve the problem," he replied. "I knew it needed to be taken care of before you two could go poking around."

"And that problem would be?"

"My business," the mayor stated firmly. "Not yours."

"Fine," Dean ground out. "So much for trying to be polite. You clubbed the polite brother. I'm the angry bastard." The mayor actually winced, though Dean wasn't sure why. "So let's get down to it. Did you kill Nick or did Casper the sociopathic ghost?"

"Shut your mouth," the man ordered. He gripped the shovel he was holding as if readying for another swing, then stopped abruptly. He turned toward the jail and Dean thought it looked like he was listening.

"Bob?" The man paid him no notice, all of his attention on the abandoned building. Dean snapped his fingers. "Bob!" he said more loudly.

Finally the mayor turned back toward him. "You," he pointed. "Just stay away. I will deal with this."

"You've done a bang up job so far," Dean said through clenched teeth, Marigold still trained on the mayor. He ought to shoot the guy on principle for trying to brain Sam. He still might. The night was young.

"Just stay away," the man said again, his attention already wavering. He dropped the shovel and turned, running toward the jail.

Dean quickly knelt beside Sam and set Marigold down. Sam had fallen in an awkward heap and Dean gathered him up, gently straightening his long limbs. Dean couldn't see anything for all of Sam's hair and carefully ran his fingers through it, immediately finding a large sized goose egg already forming on one side.

"Well if we're lucky," Dean said gruffly, "the doctor will have to shave your head."

He shrugged his jacket off one arm at a time, then carefully laid Sam back on the ground using the jacket to cushion his head. Dean leaned over and dragged the duffel bag closer to rummage for a flashlight.

"Sorry about this, Sammy," he said, using the light to check his pupils. A blow like that could crush a man's skull. Dean's only hope was that Sam had managed to move fast enough that the shovel had only glanced off his head. When Dean was checking the second eye, Sam groaned and tried to pull away. "Sammy?" Dean ignored the worried tremor in his voice. Sam wasn't awake enough to hear it.

"Yeah," came the weak answer as Sam slowly opened his eyes.

Dean leaned over him so he could study his face. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Sam blinked owlishly. "Fourteen or fifteen." He blinked again in confusion. "It'd be easier to tell if you'd quit moving them around."

"And it'd be easier to tell if you were actually looking at my hand," Dean observed. "That's my nose, dude."

"Then in that case, only one."

"Good thing you've got a hard head," he helped Sam sit up, "cause you're not funny for sure."

Sam groaned again as he tried to remain sitting upright and Dean kept his hands on his shoulders, steadying him. "Take it easy," he said gently. "He nearly took your head off. You'd think a smart guy like the mayor would know how to use a shovel properly."

Sam brought a hand up to his head, carefully fingering the lump forming. "Oh, I think he knew how to use it just fine." He looked up as if suddenly remembering. "He leave?"

"He ran into the jail." Dean let Sam go and then retrieved his jacket, shrugging back into it. "How you feeling?"

"I'll… I'll be fine," Sam answered, shakily trying to get to his feet.

Dean offered him a hand up, but then stepped back giving him time to get his bearings. He needed to know if Sam was going to be able to stand on his own two feet. Otherwise he would send Sam to the car and take care of this himself. On second thought, this might be easier without Sam anyway. He'd just go in, blast the guy full of rock salt and haul his ass out of there.

"Ok," Sam finally said, "as long as nobody else hits me over the head I should be good."

"You sure?" He was pale and still shaky and Dean could tell his head was killing him. Sam was wincing every time he spoke.

"Mostly," Sam replied. Dean might have believed him if Sam's voice hadn't sounded like a six year old trying to be brave.

They both looked up hearing a loud crashing sound come from inside the jail, but neither moved.

"I'm not feeling overly charitable toward the executive branch right now," Dean said tiredly, "we could just leave. Dig up the other guy tomorrow." Another loud crash came from inside the building and Dean swore, bending down to pick up Marigold. He then retrieved Sam's shotgun from the ground and handed it to him.

Together they moved toward the front of the jail to go in through the gaping hole in the front left by the fire. As they walked into the remains of the lobby, the sodden mess both cracked and squished underfoot. Dean looked up at the shell of the burnt ceiling and had to fight down a shudder.

Sometimes your issues picked just the wrong time to wake up and go for the throat. Fire was many things and a mixed blessing if ever there was one. Burn a corpse, take out a ghost and save your ass one day. Kill your mother, kill your girlfriend the next…

Dean couldn't move fast enough to get through the damaged rooms. He realized what he was doing, however, and immediately slowed. He could have his breakdown later. Sam was behind him, still half-stunned by the blow to the head he'd taken, and his safety was Dean's first priority. All they had to do was get the mayor out of there, burn the drunk's body and the problem should be taken care of.

They finally left the burnt section of building behind and as they moved closer to the problem block of cells they heard raised voices.

"Just listen to me!" they heard a man shout and Dean recognized the mayor's voice. The answer was more garbled, though just as loud, the words slurring and stumbling.

They turned the corner to see the mayor looking every which way, searching for something. "Bud!" he screamed almost frantically. "Bud, where are you?!"

"I'll kill you," the voice slurred. "You know… you deserve it."

"Stay back, Pete! Stay away from me. It was _your_ fault. You _know_ it was your fault." Mayor Evans turned around in a circle, still looking for something. "Bud, please!"

Sam and Dean watched as the ghost appeared and solidified within a few feet of the mayor. It was a young man with dark collar length hair, wearing a prison jumper. He was swaying slightly, his face twisted with fury.

Bob immediately backed away, holding out a hand as if to ward off the spirit. He backed into the cell behind him, slamming the door. "Bud, where are you?" he yelled. "You only did one decent thing in your whole life. Where are you when I need you?"

The ghost stepped closer to the bars and the terrified mayor backed up into the far corner of the cell. "Pete, please. Don't do this."

The ghost made a gesture and the cell door flew off its hinges. Sam dove one way. Dean threw himself the other, but one corner of the door caught him in the hip and spun him until he landed in a sprawl. The barred door slammed against the wall behind them with a deafening clang then fell to the ground.

"You're a dead man," Dean heard Pete snarl.

Dean stared up at the ceiling trying to decide if his hip was broken. "Well," he said, gripping Marigold tightly, "looks like we dug up the wrong body. _Terrific_."

* * *

_Allrighty… Now we have all the major players in place and the fun can begin… but you'll have to wait 'til tomorrow._


	5. Chapter 5

**Wrecked Angles**

Summary: A jail, a mayor, a ghost, a couple of wounded heroes…

_Very sorry if anyone had trouble seeing the last chapter… The site was playing peek-a-boo with it. _

_Righto. One smackdown, coming up!_

Chapter Five

* * *

Sam brought the pump action shotgun to his shoulder and fired. The ghost gave a furious shriek as it disappeared in a spray of rock salt. Surprised that Dean hadn't fired as well, Sam turned to find him flat on his back several yards away.

Sam hurried to his side and knelt. "Dean?" he asked uncertainly, seeing him holding a hand against his hip like it was hurting.

"Door clipped me," Dean wheezed, still not really moving.

"You ok?"

He smiled tightly. "I think we might have to leave my Elvis impersonation out of the act for a couple of weeks."

"I've seen your Elvis impersonation, man," Sam answered. "I think we can probably leave it out permanently."

"Dude," Dean rolled onto his uninjured side and tried to sit up, groaning as he did, "you were nowhere near sober when you saw it last time."

"I know," Sam replied. "What does that say about how bad it was?"

Dean snorted. "It says your judgment is impaired, drunk _or_ sober. I think we both remember what happened in Tuscaloosa."

"You were the one who had to steal those flower pots." Sam looked his brother over carefully. "Can you stand?"

"Where's the Mayor?" Dean asked instead of answering.

"Cowering in his cell." Sam frowned, watching as Dean pushed himself onto his feet and leaned back against the wall, not putting his full weight on his injured hip.

"Bob," Dean called loudly. "Get your sorry ass out here. We're leaving!"

"We are?" Just as Sam asked the question, they heard a door slam somewhere deeper in the jail.

"You wanna wait around for Pete to get himself back together and come kill us?" Another door slammed, closer this time, the bars letting out a metallic peal that rang through the entire building. "Apparently, all these years, Bud the sociopath was the only thing keeping poor drunk Pete from killing every guard he could find. And being the brilliant guys we are, we just burned our bodyguard out in the cemetery. I vote we vamoose. We'll salt and burn Pete in the morning."

"Fair enough." Sam's head was pounding like it was going to explode. Just their luck, really, that the psycho killer was Pete and not the hardcore criminal. In future, Sam decided, they should come up with the plan and then do exactly the opposite. It would probably work out better.

"I'm not going anywhere." They both looked up to see the mayor standing in the cell doorway.

"You have a death wish?" Dean demanded angrily. "Strike that. You walked in here knowing what was up. You've definitely got one." He jerked his head toward the hallway. "Come on, Sam. We'll leave him to it."

Sam ignored his brother and looked to the mayor. "You wanna tell us why?"

"Pete is my responsibility. I'll take care of this," the man answered.

"Unless you plan on bogging him down in committee," Dean snapped, "I don't think you're qualified here, Bob."

"Dude," Sam said in exasperation, "not helping." He took a step closer to the Mayor. "Tell us what happened that night."

The mayor stood up straighter, eyeing them both. "We had some sort of failure and a bunch of the cell doors opened. It only took a minute or two before it turned into a near riot."

"You got locked in this cell?" Sam asked.

The man shook his head. "No. Pete was after me. He… he was going to gut me. You could see it in his eyes. Bud saw it too. He pulled me into his cell and tried to hold the door shut. Only decent thing the man ever did his entire life. Still don't know why he did it."

"Bud protected you." Apparently he'd been a criminal, but not a murderer. Whole different ballpark, Sam supposed.

The mayor nodded. "He saved my life. I was trying to get away. Pete had a pocketknife or something. Don't know where he got it. Bud grabbed me and jerked me in here. He saved me and he died for it."

"Pete killed him?"

"Bud was trying to hold the door closed. Pete cut at his hands to get him to let go and eventually he did. Bud still fought him, but Pete must've hit something important. Bud didn't bleed much, but he still died."

Another door slammed, much closer this time, making them all jump.

"So how'd you kill him?" Dean asked.

The mayor visibly flinched at the question, but his eyes met Dean's. "I broke his neck. I rammed his head into the sink. He was trying to kill me and I did what I had to."

"Why'd he want you dead? You get your kicks smacking the prisoners around?" Dean inquired.

"Pete was a mean drunk."

Dean pushed away from the wall and stepped toward the mayor, though Sam noted with a decided limp.

"Now if there's one thing I know," Dean said, "it's drunks. Sloppy drunks, weepy drunks, braggy drunks, happy drunks, horny drunks; we've met 'em all. Sammy here's half way between a whiny drunk and a singing drunk. Trust me. Neither is pretty. But mean drunks..." Dean's face became grave, and Sam felt his heart constrict painfully. "Mean drunks, I know especially. For whatever reason, Pete wanted you dead. It takes real motivation for a drunk to keep after you like that, even a mean one. So, _what did you do_?"

"I didn't _do_ anything!" the mayor snapped.

"_You killed her."_

The three men looked around, but there was nothing to see. The voice echoed round and round through the building, seemingly coming from all directions.

"I was trying to _save_ her!" Bob shouted. "You and your stupid schemes, Pete! Always up to something, always working an_ angle_."

"_You killed her."_

"SHUT UP!" the mayor screamed.

"Bob!" Dean snapped. "Tell us what's going on!"

The man took a calming breath, though his eyes continued to scan the room anxiously. "Pete was a small-time con man. We liked the same girl and he wanted to teach me a lesson, so he took her with him on a job. When I found out, I went to get her. Long story short, I showed up, the guy figured out he was being duped, and Pete ran for it. He didn't get far though. He was in a panic and wrecked the car." The mayor's tone became flat, forbidding. "Pete made it. Martha didn't."

"_You killed her."_

"We got it, already," Dean yelled. "What is it with the ghosts and the repetition?"

"Don't blame me for the mess you made!" Bob yelled. "I was trying to get her _away_ from danger. You purposely took her with you to work a con!"

"I take it Pete blames you?" Dean said unnecessarily.

"Blames me for making the scam go wrong, for Martha's death. He blames my family for everything else. Blames us for being a drunk, blames us that he was a shiftless no-good bum in the first place," Bob said nastily.

"Why would he blame your whole family?" Sam asked in confusion.

"Because he's a bastard!" Bob shouted.

"I think we know that," Dean snapped. "It kind of goes along with taking a girl on a con job and getting her killed."

The mayor rolled his eyes. "Not that kind, you half-wit."

"He means Pete was illegitimate," Sam explained.

Dean had frozen where he was, almost statue-like. He stared at Bob and the more Sam looked he wasn't sure his brother was breathing. Every trace of humor in his face had dropped away, every bit of his constant amusement with the absurdity that was the world. "Pete was your brother?" he asked quietly, and Sam doubted Bob understood the dangerous undercurrent in Dean's question. "You killed your _brother_?"

"I tried to help," the mayor cried. "Heaven knows I tried to befriend him. I couldn't tell anyone who he was. My father would have killed me. But I felt sorry for him. I _tried_," he said again. "But Pete was so angry he wouldn't have it. He was too bitter to do anything but drink and take a swing at me whenever he got the chance. And then his stupid scheme got my girlfriend killed." The expression on his face hardened. "After that it was all over. No more trying."

"He was your brother," Dean said lowly, almost a warning growl. "You can't just… You don't get to…" For once Dean seemed at a loss for words. He was bristling, so furious he couldn't speak.

"_You're a dead man."_

The voice was loud now, enraged, surrounding them.

Sam was slammed back against the wall. His head crashed into it. Dean flew through the air, thudding into the wall beside him and stayed there suspended. Sam knew that if it weren't for the heavy pressure against his chest, like a hand holding him back, he would be in a heap on the floor. His vision had gone dark, but it began to clear and the ringing in his ears faded. He blinked, ordering the blackness away and then gasped.

He was eye to eye with Pete.

The ghost was tall, his face only inches from Sam's, glowing, angry eyes boring into him.

"Guards," Pete hissed. He turned slightly to glance at Dean. "More guards."

"I would like to take this opportunity to say that we are in no way affiliated with law enforcement," Dean said. The ghost cocked its head to one side, matching Dean. Sam grimaced worriedly as his brother's smirk appeared. "Not. Guards," he said as if talking to an idiot.

The ghost flickered, disappearing from in front of Sam and reappearing in front of Dean. He stood for several seconds studying him and for just a moment confusion seemed to cross his face. He glanced back at Sam and then back to Dean. "You are a guard," Pete finally said, then pointed toward Sam. "You guard this one."

"Different kind of guard duty," Dean countered. Sam could see that he was fighting to free himself from the hold the ghost was using to keep them plastered to the wall, but it was useless. "I keep him safe, not keep him locked up."

Sam inwardly cringed. How many times had he called their life a prison? How many times had Dean's 'guard duty' felt more like an attempt to keep him from running? And now with their dad's final orders…

Pete nodded toward Sam, though his fearsome eyes were still on Dean. "He is a prisoner. He feels it," the ghost stated with certainty.

Dean's eyes shot toward Sam, pain and betrayal flashing through them. "Dean, I…" Sam stopped abruptly when he saw Dean's stricken expression change into near panic. He coughed, trying to clear his throat, then threw his head back, lengthening his neck and Sam could see it was a desperate attempt to breathe. Dean fought furiously to wrest himself from the ghost's invisible grip.

"Pete, stop! I'm not a prisoner!" Sam shouted. "He's my brother!" he added, as if that explained everything. In their case, maybe it did.

The ghost flickered, reappearing in front of Sam and Dean sagged, gulping in air.

"Brothers lie. They betray. They _kill_," the ghost snarled. He turned away from them and lurched angrily toward Mayor Evans. "Don't we, _brother_?"

The mayor dropped to his knees, clutching at his throat, gasping frantically for air.

"Ashamed of me now, are you? Embarrassed of daddy's little _indiscretion_?" The mayor toppled over, still gasping for breath, and Pete kicked him viciously. "Don't want the whole town to know your precious father screwed the town whore?"

"Let him go," Sam cried helplessly. "Pete, you don't have to do this."

"Pete, no," Dean managed to croak out, coughing again.

Pete's head snapped back to Dean, his ferocious eyes narrowing. "Why are you protecting him?"

Dean choked, fighting again to breathe. Sam struggled to free himself, every terrifying nightmare of being stuck back in the cabin with the demon playing through his mind. Every horrified moment of watching Dean die trapped against the wall having the life squeezed out of him tore through Sam's brain as the scene was reborn in front of him.

"You should understand. Your brother guards you. He tries to keep you penned, tries to keep you in line so you don't embarrass him," the ghost stated, glaring at Dean. "He is _ashamed_ of you."

Pete tilted his head back and to one side, closing his eyes. Sam felt the hair on the back of his neck prickling and _knew_ the ghost was listening to him. He imagined he could feel invisible fingers tickling through his brain.

"Rough, uneducated, uncivilized, uncouth, coarse, rude, a hustler, a womanizer, a liar, a scam artist." The words fell from the ghost's mouth like he was ticking each one off a list he'd found in Sam's subconscious. Each word seemed to punch at Dean, smashing away at him as Dean had the life crushed from his body.

Sam wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted Pete _away from Dean_.

"You stand up for Bob?" the ghost opened his eyes and fixed them on Dean. "You should know better. You know what it's like. Your brother treats you like you're trash."

Dean gasped, forcefully pulling in air, fighting the ghost's efforts by sheer strength of will. And _laughed_. He _laughed_. A strangled, desperate bark of laughter, incongruous under the circumstances.

The ghost stepped back, startled into loosening his grip.

"Dean?" Sam asked worriedly.

But Dean was looking at Pete, nearly hyperventilating now that he could breathe freely. "You think I don't know that?" Dean panted. "He's my brother. You think I don't _know_ how he feels about me?"

Sam felt the words like a fist to the jaw, blinding in their painfulness. Surely Dean knew… Surely he understood…

Sam's attention was drawn back to the mayor, breathing heavily where he was lying on the floor. Dean's words had apparently distracted the ghost into releasing Bob as well.

The ghost saw where Sam was looking and roared furiously. "Don't look at him," Pete ordered. "Do you think your brother is any better than mine?"

"What?" The word was out of Sam's mouth before he could stop it.

The ghost smiled cruelly. "He is afraid of you."

"Sam, no," Dean said, anguish plain in his voice.

"He's afraid _for_ me!" Sam snapped.

"He thinks he can't trust you. He's afraid that deep down something is wrong with you."

Sam wanted to weep. Freaking ghosts and their freaking monologues and their _freaking_ mind-reading. "_I'm_ afraid something is wrong with me!"

Mayor Evans groaned and turned over, getting to his feet. "Pete, leave them alone."

Pete rounded on him, waves of rage pouring out of him. The ghost lashed out and Bob fell back to the floor. "You pity them? They are _strangers_! They are nothing to you!" Pete spat. "And they say I'm the bastard?" He kicked the downed man again. "You wouldn't even claim the body. So afraid of what people would say, still ashamed."

"Please, Pete," the mayor begged. "Father wouldn't let…"

"A pauper's funeral!" Pete screamed. "Is that all your own brother is worth?"

Sam and Dean both looked up as the room around them suddenly seemed to be filled with people. Except they weren't people, Sam saw, but ghosts. _Dozens_ of them.

The potter's field had emptied into the jail. The homeless, the destitute, nameless murder victims, old men and women who'd died alone, every person in the county who'd died with no one to see to their burial but an unfeeling county government. They stood looking on, ratty and bedraggled, staring at the half-brothers. Unnaturally still, they watched, weighing and assessing.

"_Ungrateful."_

"_Spineless."_

"_Weak."_

"_No consideration."_

"_Disloyal."_

"_Unappreciative."_

"_Coward."_

"_No regard."_

"_Faithless."_

"_Deceitful."_

"_No understanding."_

"_No recognition."_

The words circled around the cell block, falling from hundreds of lips, a cacophony of derision, anger and condemnation. The noise was deafening, a guilty verdict if ever Sam heard one.

"You," an old man pointed to Pete, "you turned on your own and drove him away. You would not accept what little he offered you. Though you have little, it is more than having nothing. _Ungrateful_."

"You," another man pointed to Mayor Evans, younger and who appeared to have died from a gunshot. "Embarrassment though he might be, guilty and shameful, duty to your family still binds you. _Coward_."

The ghosts began to circle like sharks scenting blood in the water. Pete and Bob stood back to back as the mob of abandoned souls closed on them.

The two brothers disappeared behind a curtain of flickering bodies. The two screamed as one as the circle tightened, molding into a central mass, light pulsing as the rotten looking bodies folded in on themselves, smaller and smaller until finally there was nothing left and the light faded.

Sam and Dean fell to the floor as they were released. Dean must have bumped his hip because he rolled the other way with a groan and lay flat on his back.

"Dean, did we just kill the mayor?"

"I think that was the local version of an impeachment." Dean coughed raggedly. "I never did care much for politics."

* * *

_Ye olde wrap-up tomorrow…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Wrecked Angles**

Summary: Well if you're still reading this you should sure know what's going on by now!

_Here you have it, all wrapped up with a nice bow. And for those of you who feared some sort of Grand Canyon sized rift between our heroes… Oh ye of little faith…_

Chapter Six

* * *

Dean picked his way through the wreckage of the lobby, all the while trying to ignore the fact that his hip felt like it wasn't properly attached to his body. He could sense Sam hovering close behind him should he fall and nearly laughed at the absurdity of it. Sam was only a gentle nudge away from collapsing himself. If Dean fell on him, he'd probably pass out.

Finally making it past the rubble, they emerged from the building into the fresh night air and Dean stopped dead in his tracks. He automatically put out a hand to stop Sam behind him so that he was shielded as well as possible.

"Officer Avery," Dean nodded coolly. Ben, the ever-dour and threatening member of the clan, was standing ten feet away at the end of the sidewalk, leaning against the side of his police cruiser. He was watching them warily and his hand was resting on his gun. Dean instinctively tightened his grip on Marigold, but fought the urge to bring her to bear. Time enough for that later if this all went south.

"Gentlemen."

"Did you need something, Ben?" Dean kept his voice nice and level. Sam would be so proud.

"You want to tell me what just happened in there?" the policeman asked.

"Nope," Dean answered simply. Sam moved to stand beside him and this time Dean acquiesced, a gentle reminder to the cop that he was outnumbered, outgunned and one of his opponents was a giant. "I'm thinking a 'don't ask don't tell' policy is going to work best on this one."

"You…" Ben's expression crumbled for just a second before reforming into its blank mask. "Did you take care of it? Whatever it was?"

"And then some," Dean sighed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" the officer asked, warning in his tone.

"It means yes," Sam said more soothingly. "One of the inmates who died here in the riot had a bone to pick with a guard. Your brother, Nick, just got caught in the crossfire."

"But whatever killed him… It's dead? Permanently?"

"Yes," Sam answered with conviction.

Ben sighed as if a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders and he sagged against the car, his hand falling away from his gun. "Good," he nodded, his voice slightly broken, "good." His eyes moved from Sam back to Dean. "Thank you."

Slightly embarrassed, Dean cleared his throat and was immediately sorry for it. Freaking ghost had never laid a hand on him, but it felt like he'd been throttled. He bent forward coughing and his hip protested immediately. He felt Sam set a hand against his back and Dean drew in a shallow, shaky breath.

"You ok?" the policeman asked. Dean looked up to see that the man already had a hand raised to his radio to request an ambulance.

Dean straightened and fought down the urge to cough again. "Fine. Sam here's the one who got hit in the head with a shovel."

"I'm fine, too," Sam said quickly. "Nothing that hasn't happened before."

"You've been hit in the head with a shovel?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Peoria."

Dean smiled involuntarily. "Oh, yeah. The deranged yak looking thing."

"Glad to see you're just as sympathetic now as you were then," Sam said, pursing his lips.

Ben cleared his throat to draw their attention back. "I thought I saw the mayor," he said. "Is he still here?"

Dean shifted uncomfortably and he and Sam shared a quick look.

"He, uhhh…" Sam trailed off.

"Congratulations. Your sister's just been promoted," Dean finished for him.

"Oh?" Ben said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"Yeah." Dean shared another uneasy glance with Sam.

Suddenly Ben gave a chagrinned huff that might have been a chuckle. "As if that woman needed help being any more hoity-toity. She'll make us all call her Madam Mayor. I still remember when we called her Peanut."

"They go off to college and get all uppity," Dean commiserated.

"Dean…" Sam growled.

"See what I mean?"

The policeman snorted.

"So," Dean said, straightening, Marigold still firmly in his grip, "you going to cart us away or are we going to get to drive off into the sunset?"

"This is what you two do?" Ben asked instead of answering. "All the time?"

"Not as glamorous as you were expecting, is it," Dean stated. "And just so you know… the rumor about Sam and his hairdresser… So not true."

Ben pushed away from the car and opened the driver's side door. "I'll tell my dad that you took care of it. I know he'll be grateful, my brothers as well. Even Tabitha…"

"But?" Dean knew it was coming. The beauty of law enforcement was that if nothing else, it was predictable.

"But you two are fugitives. I don't want to see you here again."

"Understood," Sam said before Dean could answer.

"Good." Ben got into the cruiser and pulled away without a second glance.

Dean looked at Sam and smiled. "I think we're growing on him. Remind me to send him a friendship bracelet for Christmas."

"Shut up, Dean." Sam shook his head and Dean had to grab him when he started to sway.

"You stay upright, you hear me?" Dean ordered. "Thanks to Pete, I've got the hip of an eighty year old woman. I don't need to be hauling your sorry carcass around."

"Sure," Sam answered groggily. "Where's the car?"

"Twenty feet to your right. Can you make it?" Sam didn't answer and Dean kept a hand on his arm as they walked.

"You know…" Sam said softly, "what Pete said…"

"Don't worry about it," Dean said quickly.

"No, Dean. I…"

"You weren't even listening to what I said to Pete, were you?" Dean asked, irritation sneaking into his voice.

"Huh?"

"I told him I already knew how you felt," Dean reminded him. "And I do. I'm your brother. You think I don't know you better than a ghost with issues the size of Texas?"

Sam stopped walking and looked at him, his eyes clear again. "I was afraid…"

"That you think I'm an amoral thug?" Dean shrugged. "You do. Sometimes," he added a moment later.

Sam's eyes widened. "Surely…"

"And sometimes I think you're a preachy, self-righteous, uptight virgin. Maybe sometimes you need to be… to get the job done… or to keep me in line… whatever."

Sam was silent just staring at him, his face unreadable.

"And, dude, don't call me Shirley."

Sam's relief was visible. Dean could see something in him relax and then Sam grabbed his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"If you try to hug me, I'll go find that shovel," Dean warned. "I've had years of training. I'll show the politicians how to get a job done." He physically turned Sam toward the car and pointed. "Now get in before you fall down."

* * *

Sam settled into the passenger seat, closing his eyes against the throbbing pain in his head. He kept them closed as Dean got in and started the car. The rumble of the engine was a soothing massage and Sam allowed it to seep into his tired muscles.

After several moments, however, it finally dawned on Sam that they weren't moving. He opened his eyes and turned toward Dean. His expression was troubled, looking through the windshield at the old jail.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

Dean looked startled and reached to put the car in gear, but Sam blocked his hand. Dean shot him an uneasy glance, then quickly looked away, locking down the distress that had shown on his face. He pursed his lips and Sam could see him thinking furiously, trying to work through something in his mind.

"Dean, what is it?"

Dean continued looking at the jail until finally Sam thought he wasn't going to answer.

"Dean," Sam coaxed gently.

"He killed his brother." The words were quiet, troubled. They hung in the air, painful and bringing up so much more than the just-finished hunt. Sam felt like he'd been sucker-punched. It was everything that they'd been worrying about and fighting over and fighting against for months now.

"We weren't there. Maybe it was… necessary," Sam answered through a suddenly constricted throat. "Pete, he'd lost his way. He was dangerous."

"No," Dean said vehemently. "_No_."

"Sometimes it has to be done."

Dean looked at him then. Anger, fear, belligerence, denial, but also a silent and often repeated vow, to serve and protect. It all swept across Dean's face in only a few seconds, freezing Sam's breath in chest. He knew he was right about what he'd said to the ghost. Dean wasn't afraid of him. Dean was afraid _for_ him.

Then it all passed, gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by Dean's patented nothing-can-bother-me smirk. "Well, remind me not to get possessed anytime soon." He put the car in gear. "Apparently, you'll just shoot me."

"Dean!" Sam said, horrified.

"Just kidding, Sam. Lighten up," Dean raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure you'd do your best to just wing me."

Sam blinked, stunned. Amazed, as always, by how quickly Dean could go from being nearly beaten down by worry to brushing it off and laughing at the disaster that was their lives.

"I'd appreciate it if you'd leave off the shoulder for a bit. It's still tender," Dean suggested off-handedly.

Fighting the urge to strangle his ever-sensitive brother, Sam sighed heavily. "You're an ass. You know that?"

"And apparently, I'm _uncouth_, whatever that is. I think I should put it on my business cards. Sounds cool."

"You do that," Sam said, settling back down into the seat.

As they pulled away, Dean turned on the radio and Sam groaned. "_Please_, man. Enough with the _Boston_. I can't take any more."

"Sam, you know the rules. You honor the fallen."

"Dude, it wasn't the Kennedy assassination," Sam said in exasperation. "The band's lead singer died."

"He sang for truth, justice and stadium rock everywhere," Dean shot back.

"Yeah, Dean. Mother Theresa, Nelson Mandela and Brad Delp. That makes perfect sense."

"Sammy…" Dean said, as if despairing of his brother ever understanding. "It's all in how you look at it. Gotta see these things from the right angle."

"And what does that mean?"

"Means I'm just looking for some 'Peace of Mind'," Dean answered, only half-joking. "Brad understood that. That's why this is _Boston_ Memorial Week." He shifted his weight as they pulled out of the jail parking lot and hissed involuntarily, holding a hand to his hip.

"Yeah, well we're both a wreck," Sam said. "We need some rest first and then we can worry about peace of mind." As soon as he said it, Sam wondered if it were even possible. Peace of mind. Peace of any kind, really. They were Winchesters, soldiers. They were at war. What if no matter what angle they took it from, no matter how they looked at what was ahead, there was no way to win? What if there was no peace of mind to be had, not for them?

Dean shook his head. "Hey, Mr. Doom and Gloom?"

"What?"

"I can practically see steam coming out of your ears, man. Will you turn your brain off?" Dean gave him a sidelong glance. "It's had a rough night already."

"Yeah, yeah." Sam looked out the window as the countryside flew by and realized just how fast they were going. Dean was apparently on a mission to get them as far away from the jail as fast as he could. "Man, you better slow down or you're gonna get a ticket."

"It's ok," Dean gave him a wide, white-toothed grin, pushing the pedal to the floor. "I know the new mayor. She _loves_ me."

* * *

_And there you have it. Hope it kept you amused for a day or two. Pardon the Boston moment at the end. When I saw the story on the news, I knew Dean would have noted it as well._


End file.
